As an Indonesian, I have never felt more insecure about my nationality than in my own country.
In my interaction with the international community here, I just have to put up with the way these people react when they find out that underneath my deceivingly Oriental look, I am in fact an Indonesian.
In other countries like the U.S., at least I may get a diversity credit for being an Indonesian. I may be the first Indonesian they’ve seen in their lives and it’s really cool because now they can pin down one more place on their map of “where my friends are from.” But here? God, I am just one of the two f'ing hundred f'ing fifty million locals who, thanks to the action of some people, are thought to be preying on them. Even the Asian fetishists are tired of meeting yet another local girl.
Those who had guessed from the beginning that I’m an Indonesian would just keep their distance from me, afraid that I might start pulling their pants and kissing their glorious expatriate ass for a chance to practice English or marry them and live in the EU. Those who thought that I was a Taiwanese, Japanese, etc, would tell me that I shouldn’t go to this place and that place because they attract the locals, but once they found out that I am myself a local, they would be ashamed as hell and never talked to me the same way anymore (if they ever talk to me again at all). Those who ask where I am from, would swallow their saliva upon hearing the answer and say, “ah interesting, I gotta talk to my friend over there.”
Ok, I have to admit that some foreigners are nice, especially the newcomers. They still think it’s cool to be friends with the local people, so they take pictures with me (or of me) and post them on their Facebook to show off to their friends back home.
But then again, the same people also take pictures of becak drivers, fishermen, street kids, and post them on their Facebook. What am I? A tourist attraction?
Anyway, all joking aside, there is always an exception to every rule. Even in the land of reverse-discrimination, I still meet some international folks who are intelligent and open-minded enough to accept that not all locals are the same, like the 20 people whom Yuki and I traveled with to Pulau Seribu this past weekend.
And all joking aside, I do miss New York, the place where you can tell people you’re Indonesian and most people won’t have any prejudice about you (because they don’t know where it is). It’s the place where I could befriend a random half-Jewish/Japanese girl on the subway and later got introduced to her Turkish and Japanese Peruvian roommate; it’s the place where a Greek girl who got annoyed by my housewarming party could become one of my closest friends and later introduced me and my Hong Kongese roommate to her American and Taiwanese roommates.
Finally, all racial jokes and kvetch aside, I do really miss New York. If I ever had the chance to come back there, I would hang on to it for life and never let it go. Those of you who are there, please do not take your New York life for granted. You may have to learn the hard way that the expensive real estate, the stinky bums on the subway and the annoying tourists are the comparatively small price that you have to pay for such an amazing life. Please wish the kvetch-er luck. Hope I will be back in New York this September!
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Because I Care About You
One thing that I hate about conversing with a family member is that, throughout the entire conversation, they could tell you really shitty things about you just to dump out their own bitterness toward the world, and they could justify themselves by saying “I say this because I care about you."
For example, they could call you an idiot (and many variations of it). But if you give them a clear hint that you disagree and are not happy with their statements, they’d tell you “I said this because you’re my relative and I care about you.”
Sometimes they’d use the maids or drivers as an example to make their point. “You see, I wouldn’t call the maids an idiot. Why? Because they’re not my relatives. I don’t care about them.”
“Everything I told you today is well-meant,” they’d continue.
First, that made me want to switch place with the maid. Second, that made me try to think of what good intention could there be behind discouraging someone and calling her an idiot. The only thing I could come up with was that they don’t want me to have a skewed sense of self so that I won’t be disappointed when I find out for myself that I really am an idiot.
If that's the case, I wonder if it’s actually better for them to show their love by letting the idiot continue to have an inflated sense of self and cheer her up if she does get disappointed. After all, who knows that I’m not in fact an idiot? Maybe I'm a notch above idiot - a moron? You never know.
One day they would probably ask me to eat fresh turd, and say “I want you to know that life is full of shit. I want you to take it now so that one day when you actually have to take some shit you’ll know how it tastes like and won’t be disappointed.”
And of course, “I do this because I care about you.”
For example, they could call you an idiot (and many variations of it). But if you give them a clear hint that you disagree and are not happy with their statements, they’d tell you “I said this because you’re my relative and I care about you.”
Sometimes they’d use the maids or drivers as an example to make their point. “You see, I wouldn’t call the maids an idiot. Why? Because they’re not my relatives. I don’t care about them.”
“Everything I told you today is well-meant,” they’d continue.
First, that made me want to switch place with the maid. Second, that made me try to think of what good intention could there be behind discouraging someone and calling her an idiot. The only thing I could come up with was that they don’t want me to have a skewed sense of self so that I won’t be disappointed when I find out for myself that I really am an idiot.
If that's the case, I wonder if it’s actually better for them to show their love by letting the idiot continue to have an inflated sense of self and cheer her up if she does get disappointed. After all, who knows that I’m not in fact an idiot? Maybe I'm a notch above idiot - a moron? You never know.
One day they would probably ask me to eat fresh turd, and say “I want you to know that life is full of shit. I want you to take it now so that one day when you actually have to take some shit you’ll know how it tastes like and won’t be disappointed.”
And of course, “I do this because I care about you.”
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The Great Bathroom Quandary
One thing that I hate about working in a female-dominated office is that you rarely have the ladies room all for yourself.
Not that I am so hi-maintenance that I don't want to share the bathroom with others. But there are things you do in the bathroom that feel natural when you are alone, but a horror when there are people witnessing it in some ways, be it through hearing, smelling, or worse, sight (i.e. they see who's doing it).
Well, most girls in the office don’t seem to have the problem that I have. But again, they are all pretty. Actions committed by beautiful people are always forgiven. Sometimes they are justified or even glorified. Say a pretty girl accidentally farts when she is laughing, most people would just think it’s cute. Or depending on how she reacts, people may even start thinking that farting in public is HOT. But the same action committed by a fat ugly girl? Nuh oh! That’s your own private dooms day buddy!
Going back to the bathroom quandary, sometimes if I’m lucky, the other occupant(s) are already about to leave when I enter the bathroom. When that happens, I would wait til they leave while pretending to wipe the toilet seat, then once they leave I rush to finish my business quickly before anyone else comes in.
On not so lucky days, another person enters the bathroom the same time I do or just right before I get there. When that happens, I cross my fingers hoping that they will get out quickly so that I can do my business privately afterwards. But unfortunately, it’s rarely the case. There’s the girl who washes her hands for a good two minutes (citing the therapeutic effects of soaking in hot water). There’s the girl who always fixes her make-up. And of course, the friendly new girl who talks to whoever else is in the bathroom. You are already on the edge, and these people are still outside.
There’s also the situation when I think I am lucky but really am not. I get the entire restroom all for myself and do my business in peace. But as I wash my hands, somebody comes in, says hi to me, and goes straight to the stall that I’ve just used. Ugh, is it just me who can smell it? Or other people can too?
But nothing beats the two times when I enter the bathroom, it is already stinky like bathrooms in China, but when I am about to leave, somebody enters the bathroom and sees that I am the last person to use it. It really wasn't me, but how would I explain this? Tell her "umm, that wasn't me btw, I swear"? Some people get the benefits of the doubt, but I wouldn't be so confident that I am one of those people. Within seconds, all the sacrifice that I made, including pausing all activities when people come in, is nullified by the hard proof that I am there, leaving behind a gas chamber. All the work that I've done to manage my reputation is destroyed by a mistake that I did not even commit.
But oh well, life is never fair and life goes on. Back at my desk, my boss is already there waiting to grill me on why the client only got 7 copies of the new brochure sample instead of 8. Obviously, there are other things to worry about than your bathroom reputation.
Not that I am so hi-maintenance that I don't want to share the bathroom with others. But there are things you do in the bathroom that feel natural when you are alone, but a horror when there are people witnessing it in some ways, be it through hearing, smelling, or worse, sight (i.e. they see who's doing it).
Well, most girls in the office don’t seem to have the problem that I have. But again, they are all pretty. Actions committed by beautiful people are always forgiven. Sometimes they are justified or even glorified. Say a pretty girl accidentally farts when she is laughing, most people would just think it’s cute. Or depending on how she reacts, people may even start thinking that farting in public is HOT. But the same action committed by a fat ugly girl? Nuh oh! That’s your own private dooms day buddy!
Going back to the bathroom quandary, sometimes if I’m lucky, the other occupant(s) are already about to leave when I enter the bathroom. When that happens, I would wait til they leave while pretending to wipe the toilet seat, then once they leave I rush to finish my business quickly before anyone else comes in.
On not so lucky days, another person enters the bathroom the same time I do or just right before I get there. When that happens, I cross my fingers hoping that they will get out quickly so that I can do my business privately afterwards. But unfortunately, it’s rarely the case. There’s the girl who washes her hands for a good two minutes (citing the therapeutic effects of soaking in hot water). There’s the girl who always fixes her make-up. And of course, the friendly new girl who talks to whoever else is in the bathroom. You are already on the edge, and these people are still outside.
There’s also the situation when I think I am lucky but really am not. I get the entire restroom all for myself and do my business in peace. But as I wash my hands, somebody comes in, says hi to me, and goes straight to the stall that I’ve just used. Ugh, is it just me who can smell it? Or other people can too?
But nothing beats the two times when I enter the bathroom, it is already stinky like bathrooms in China, but when I am about to leave, somebody enters the bathroom and sees that I am the last person to use it. It really wasn't me, but how would I explain this? Tell her "umm, that wasn't me btw, I swear"? Some people get the benefits of the doubt, but I wouldn't be so confident that I am one of those people. Within seconds, all the sacrifice that I made, including pausing all activities when people come in, is nullified by the hard proof that I am there, leaving behind a gas chamber. All the work that I've done to manage my reputation is destroyed by a mistake that I did not even commit.
But oh well, life is never fair and life goes on. Back at my desk, my boss is already there waiting to grill me on why the client only got 7 copies of the new brochure sample instead of 8. Obviously, there are other things to worry about than your bathroom reputation.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
You Look Awesome at My Expense
I hate it when a non-native English speaker who speaks flawless English begins her presentation with a disclaimer like “pardon my Swenglish/Danglish/Finglish" or "English is not my first language, so forgive me if I make mistakes.” I especially hate it when the person in question is a tall, blonde and model-esque Scandinavian beauty.
Most likely, the roomful of ignorant Americans would go “awww, how cute,” lower their expectations, and be blown away by how un-Swenglish/Danglish/Finglish her language is.
Not only does she unfairly gain herself an extra thumb up by lowering people’s expectation, but she’s also downgrading another non-native English speaker in the room whose English is worse but did not give the same warning (how tacky would it be for me to follow suit and tell the audiences to “pardon my Indolish?”)
When it comes my turn to present, they probably think, who’s this ugly Asian shmuck with the thick accent. She should be the one making the disclaimer.
Most likely, the roomful of ignorant Americans would go “awww, how cute,” lower their expectations, and be blown away by how un-Swenglish/Danglish/Finglish her language is.
Not only does she unfairly gain herself an extra thumb up by lowering people’s expectation, but she’s also downgrading another non-native English speaker in the room whose English is worse but did not give the same warning (how tacky would it be for me to follow suit and tell the audiences to “pardon my Indolish?”)
When it comes my turn to present, they probably think, who’s this ugly Asian shmuck with the thick accent. She should be the one making the disclaimer.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Jew-ophilia
So, after my last kvetch about my Jewish mom, some people were kind enough to ask how my obsession with Jewish stuff began (you have no idea how much I love listening to myself talking about this!). In recounting all the things that happened between when the Jewish fever bug first bit me and today, when I am a full blown Jew-ophile, I came up with a brilliant theory that describes how the condition develops over time.
Stage 1 - appreciation of all things Jewish:
1. You are thirsty for knowledge of Jewish stuff. You’d rather read very trivial Jewish news like “Lesbian Jewish couple celebrate adopted daughter’s Bat Mitzvah” than breaking news about a deadly pandemic attacking your neighborhood.
2. You have affinity toward every and any Jewish person. You just feel that instant click as soon as you find out that the person is Jewish, even though an hour before you wish this person would get the hell outta your face (well, as you get more experience, you’ll realize that NOT all Jewish people are created equal).
3. You start to appreciate New York.. because it is the Jewish capital of the world.
Stage 2 - identity confusion:
4. You want to dress up as a Hasidic Jew or an Upper East Side Jewish nana (grandma) for Halloween.
5. You get offended when your friends describe Jewish people as stingy, sleazy or just plain annoying – as if they are talking about your dead close relative.
6. You sprinkle Yiddish words and old Jewish adage in conversations. "Oy, I wish I had the chutzpah" or "Listen, the optimist sees the bagel, the pessimist sees the hole."
7. You think depression is hip. You ask your doctor to prescribe Xanax, Prozac or Valium because you want to emulate a Jewish American Princess (JAP).
8. You are convinced that you have a familial obligation to marry a doctor or a lawyer and so you read the NY Times wedding announcements regularly to examine how couples with the last names --berg, --man and Cohen first met.
Stage 3 – enlightenment:
9. After years of telling your friends every Jewish joke that you've learned (among other unimportant information), you realize that no one shares your enthusiasm for Jewish stuff, and you start questioning yourself.
10. You come to accept that you’re nuts, but try to convince people that you’re not the only one. And so you post a Facebook note that may pass as an American Psychological Association (APA) symptom checklist, hoping that people would think that Jew-ophilia is a common condition that could happen to anyone.
Stage 1 - appreciation of all things Jewish:
1. You are thirsty for knowledge of Jewish stuff. You’d rather read very trivial Jewish news like “Lesbian Jewish couple celebrate adopted daughter’s Bat Mitzvah” than breaking news about a deadly pandemic attacking your neighborhood.
2. You have affinity toward every and any Jewish person. You just feel that instant click as soon as you find out that the person is Jewish, even though an hour before you wish this person would get the hell outta your face (well, as you get more experience, you’ll realize that NOT all Jewish people are created equal).
3. You start to appreciate New York.. because it is the Jewish capital of the world.
Stage 2 - identity confusion:
4. You want to dress up as a Hasidic Jew or an Upper East Side Jewish nana (grandma) for Halloween.
5. You get offended when your friends describe Jewish people as stingy, sleazy or just plain annoying – as if they are talking about your dead close relative.
6. You sprinkle Yiddish words and old Jewish adage in conversations. "Oy, I wish I had the chutzpah" or "Listen, the optimist sees the bagel, the pessimist sees the hole."
7. You think depression is hip. You ask your doctor to prescribe Xanax, Prozac or Valium because you want to emulate a Jewish American Princess (JAP).
8. You are convinced that you have a familial obligation to marry a doctor or a lawyer and so you read the NY Times wedding announcements regularly to examine how couples with the last names --berg, --man and Cohen first met.
Stage 3 – enlightenment:
9. After years of telling your friends every Jewish joke that you've learned (among other unimportant information), you realize that no one shares your enthusiasm for Jewish stuff, and you start questioning yourself.
10. You come to accept that you’re nuts, but try to convince people that you’re not the only one. And so you post a Facebook note that may pass as an American Psychological Association (APA) symptom checklist, hoping that people would think that Jew-ophilia is a common condition that could happen to anyone.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
My Mom is More Jewish Than Your Jewish Mom
If you’ve ever asked me what’s with my obsession with Jewish stuff, chances are you’ve heard answers that range from “Jewish boys are the hairier and taller version of Asian boys” to the more politically correct “I find their religious practice to be fascinating.”
Truth be told, there are a lot of reasons for my obsession with Jewish culture, but one of the bigger ones is that I have a Jewish mom.
I mean, obviously, my mom is not from Israel (which explains why I don’t have any resemblance to Natalie Portman), nor does she practice Judaism (though sometimes she begins her texts with ‘shalom’). But in every other sense, my mom fits the Jewish mom’s stereotype that is made popular by comedians, perhaps even more so than many real Jewish moms out there.
She thinks that a woman’s ultimate goal in life is to get married. I may get into the best b-school in the world or make a 7-figure income at 25 (I wish!), but before I get married, all she would say is “Good, but you also need to think about your future. Remember that no matter how smart you are or how much you achieve, no one has respect for an old spinster.”
To get me to think about marriage, she nags, threatens, manipulates, and of course, guilt trips me. Ask my mom how she’s doing, she’ll say “I’m fine... I’ve just been crying a lot lately,” and continue with such rhetorical question as “Why is it that other people’s daughters are all married but my own daughter does not even think about getting married?”
If I yell at her and ask to change the topic, she’ll further guilt trip me by discussing her assortment of health issues. "God forbid, I may die sooner than you think," she'd say. "Don't do anything that you may regret later." And while she's at it, she'd remind me that she dreams of being able to coddle my kids, which means that I should get married and make kids ay-es-ay-pe.
Seriously, how more Jewish can she get? And as if that's not enough, she’s also overbearing and overprotective, another stereotype of a Jewish mom.
Mom: Have you been eating well?
Me: Yea, I eat a lot of steamed broccoli lately
Mom: Are you sure broccoli doesn’t contain any unhealthy substance?
Mom: How’s work?
Me: Good. My boss is nice.
Mom: Is your boss male or female? Does he want anything from you?
I can go on and on and cite examples of my mom's Jewish-ness, but you get the point. And before you misunderstand me, let me clarify that I love my mom to death, and I love that she is very very Jewish. This note, rather, is my official explanation for why I stock canned matzo ball soup of all instant food, always brag about having a Jew-dar, and tell you all the Jewish celeb gossips as if I subscribe to the Jewish version of People. My mom is my excuse for being the Jewish-obsessed person that I am.
Truth be told, there are a lot of reasons for my obsession with Jewish culture, but one of the bigger ones is that I have a Jewish mom.
I mean, obviously, my mom is not from Israel (which explains why I don’t have any resemblance to Natalie Portman), nor does she practice Judaism (though sometimes she begins her texts with ‘shalom’). But in every other sense, my mom fits the Jewish mom’s stereotype that is made popular by comedians, perhaps even more so than many real Jewish moms out there.
She thinks that a woman’s ultimate goal in life is to get married. I may get into the best b-school in the world or make a 7-figure income at 25 (I wish!), but before I get married, all she would say is “Good, but you also need to think about your future. Remember that no matter how smart you are or how much you achieve, no one has respect for an old spinster.”
To get me to think about marriage, she nags, threatens, manipulates, and of course, guilt trips me. Ask my mom how she’s doing, she’ll say “I’m fine... I’ve just been crying a lot lately,” and continue with such rhetorical question as “Why is it that other people’s daughters are all married but my own daughter does not even think about getting married?”
If I yell at her and ask to change the topic, she’ll further guilt trip me by discussing her assortment of health issues. "God forbid, I may die sooner than you think," she'd say. "Don't do anything that you may regret later." And while she's at it, she'd remind me that she dreams of being able to coddle my kids, which means that I should get married and make kids ay-es-ay-pe.
Seriously, how more Jewish can she get? And as if that's not enough, she’s also overbearing and overprotective, another stereotype of a Jewish mom.
Mom: Have you been eating well?
Me: Yea, I eat a lot of steamed broccoli lately
Mom: Are you sure broccoli doesn’t contain any unhealthy substance?
Mom: How’s work?
Me: Good. My boss is nice.
Mom: Is your boss male or female? Does he want anything from you?
I can go on and on and cite examples of my mom's Jewish-ness, but you get the point. And before you misunderstand me, let me clarify that I love my mom to death, and I love that she is very very Jewish. This note, rather, is my official explanation for why I stock canned matzo ball soup of all instant food, always brag about having a Jew-dar, and tell you all the Jewish celeb gossips as if I subscribe to the Jewish version of People. My mom is my excuse for being the Jewish-obsessed person that I am.
Friday, April 3, 2009
What Has Google Been Telling People Behind My Back?
It was recently brought to my attention that 70 percent of Americans Google someone they are about to meet. If the statistics is right (which I don't dispute because I do that myself), then I should expect that a blind date's or a job interviewer's first impression about me would be based on what they see on Google rather than in our first encounter. Kind of unfair, given that Google's portrayal of me is not so flattering and not updated in real time to reflect my frequently-changing-and-improving self.
A search on "Yuyun Hartono" takes 0.18 seconds and comes back with tens of results, none of which is particularly great: my LinkedIn profile; my Facebook account; my newspaper articles; and my blog.
So what are these search results telling people about me?
I suppose.. that I have a job? Thanks to LinkedIn, I have a medium to tell the world that I am employed. But unfortunately due to its widespread use, I can't inflate my job descriptions as much as I'd like to since every one of my colleagues is on LinkedIn and can sense the grandiosity.
That I am normal? (because I have a facebook account)
That I am an untalented aspiring journalist? You bet. Every page of my search results is flooded with newspaper articles with blah headlines like Students Rally for Tibetan Freedom or Students Rally for Gay Marriage and underwhelming content that always starts with "University of Wisconsin [students/professor/staff/etc.] [activity] [goal] ... ". I like to think that my writing has improved since my college newspaper days, but evidence that I suck is forever there to stay (thanks, Google!).
That I am a chronic complainer? I guess so. The search result that pops up most after the newspaper articles is my blog, which contains nothing but kvetch, kvetch and more kvetch.
Now put yourself in the shoes of a blind date or a potential employer. After you read all those ugly articles and my super modest job descriptions, would you believe me if I told you that "my strong writing skills will allow me to make a significant contribution to your firm"? Would you not think that I'm faking my positive attitude on our date having read all these complaint-laden blog posts?
The fact that my name is "Yuyun Hartono" of course doesn't help. These job interviewers and blind dates can spot me easily and can be sure that the information they've been scouring for the past 15 minutes is indeed about me.
I wish I could do something about it, like knocking unwanted results, prohibiting people to Google me, or changing my name. But none of those is likely gonna happen. That said, all I can do for now is just complain, complain and continue to complain until I realize that seasons change, hair turns gray, and Google will still be bitching about me.
A search on "Yuyun Hartono" takes 0.18 seconds and comes back with tens of results, none of which is particularly great: my LinkedIn profile; my Facebook account; my newspaper articles; and my blog.
So what are these search results telling people about me?
I suppose.. that I have a job? Thanks to LinkedIn, I have a medium to tell the world that I am employed. But unfortunately due to its widespread use, I can't inflate my job descriptions as much as I'd like to since every one of my colleagues is on LinkedIn and can sense the grandiosity.
That I am normal? (because I have a facebook account)
That I am an untalented aspiring journalist? You bet. Every page of my search results is flooded with newspaper articles with blah headlines like Students Rally for Tibetan Freedom or Students Rally for Gay Marriage and underwhelming content that always starts with "University of Wisconsin [students/professor/staff/etc.] [activity] [goal] ... ". I like to think that my writing has improved since my college newspaper days, but evidence that I suck is forever there to stay (thanks, Google!).
That I am a chronic complainer? I guess so. The search result that pops up most after the newspaper articles is my blog, which contains nothing but kvetch, kvetch and more kvetch.
Now put yourself in the shoes of a blind date or a potential employer. After you read all those ugly articles and my super modest job descriptions, would you believe me if I told you that "my strong writing skills will allow me to make a significant contribution to your firm"? Would you not think that I'm faking my positive attitude on our date having read all these complaint-laden blog posts?
The fact that my name is "Yuyun Hartono" of course doesn't help. These job interviewers and blind dates can spot me easily and can be sure that the information they've been scouring for the past 15 minutes is indeed about me.
I wish I could do something about it, like knocking unwanted results, prohibiting people to Google me, or changing my name. But none of those is likely gonna happen. That said, all I can do for now is just complain, complain and continue to complain until I realize that seasons change, hair turns gray, and Google will still be bitching about me.
Monday, March 30, 2009
You Are What Your Lunch Order is Called
I hate that the awesome salad at Cosi is called “Shanghai chicken salad.” What would my lunch companions think if they heard me ordering Shanghai chicken salad? Of course they’ll think that I’m a FOB (fresh off the boat); a young Chinese immigrant who eats nothing but the familiar food she grew up with, even at Cosi. True, I was drawn to Shanghai chicken salad for the same reason I am drawn to rice, hot food and umami taste. Because I’m a FOB! But do I need to make the people standing next to me aware of the fact? And make them give me that condescending look that implies “there's a Chinese takeout across the street, FYI, if you miss your mom's cooking"?
Dear Cosi, would you do me a favor and take the stigma out of ordering that goddamn salad? Maybe by calling it with a name that is more geographically-neutral? Like name it after the ingredients? Soy ginger salad is actually not a bad name. And in fact, I think it invokes a Zen, peaceful, mind-body-and-soul kind of feeling, something that I don't mind to be associated with.
What’s wrong with Shanghai chicken salad is that it is obvious that you name it after a place in China, a country that in an average American’s mind bears no image of sophistication, trendiness, or other images that New Yorkers strive to exude (think counterfeits, child labors, rude ladies and greasy wok). For a Chinese descendant like me, ordering a salad named after my grandparents’ not-so-glorious origin at a Midtown Cosi adds a FOB factor to the whole controversy that results in an even more severe and complex damage to my image.
Here is a tip for you and other restauranteurs out there: Give a quixotic name to foods that potentially make the eaters look less-than-ultra-classy. Examples from other restaurants:
- Beef/red meat -> steak
- White bread -> French bread, Italian (or some other romantic European country) bread
- Pork burrito -> carnitas burrito
Sure 75% of the population knows that carnitas is some kind of pork, but at least carnitas sounds cute. Plus, less critical dining mates may not make the connection right away. By obscuring the essence of these foods with misleadingly positive names, you are allowing your customers to get away with ordering their favorite comfort (yet unhip) food in a social setting, without being judged right off the bat.
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